


Pitter Patter

by dovecitadel



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Parents, Ballet, Competition, Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Heart Attacks, Ice Skating, Japan, Multi, Russia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 12:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13570338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovecitadel/pseuds/dovecitadel
Summary: The life and times of Victor and Yuuri as parents of their two lovely adopted daughters.I’m sorry for the feels, but not all of them will be bad feels?A companion to Victuuri Smut and Otayuri Smut. This is much fluffier though.All ages welcome here. But youngsters steer clear of my smutty stuff...Ongoing





	1. Snow

The sky rumbles threateningly overhead. I look up and pray that the sky doesn't open. But do the clouds obey me? The answer is no— snow flurries soon begin to twirl lazily into my vision. Victor is lucky he lives within walking distance of the shopping plaza, otherwise I'd just turn around in this Russian degree of freezing. I nonchalantly tilt my head back as I walk, just to observe the snow, but the sound of a struggle soon catches my attention.

I look around myself in confusion, sweeping a one-eighty until I spot two very familiar faces poised before the entrance of a long, dark alley. Surprise twinges in my nerves. Even through the thickening snowfall, I recognize them.

"What the hell are you doing!?" Yurio yells from the back of Otabek's motorcycle at an unseen entity. 

I quietly inch closer until I can see what's happening.

Otabek glances between Yurio and a clearly hung-over woman bending over an infant girl, worry plastered on Otabek's face.

"Shut the hell up!" the woman barks at Yurio, flipping him an obscene gesture. "Mind your own business, pretty boy!"

I watch in stunned silence as the two begin heatedly arguing in Russian. Otabek, much to his dismay, watches Yurio jump off the bike and begin to confront the woman. The woman lifts her arm to strike Yurio, sending Otabek into defensive action, diving between the two.

"That's enough!" Otabek growls, placing a firm hand on Yurio's chest and giving the woman a hard look of warning.

I take this moment to jump in as well.

"Yurio, Otabek, what's going on?" I jog up to them all.

"This hag is abusing that kid!" Yurio spits. "I literally just saw her hit the kid with that bottle! She probably downed the whole thing just to hit her with it!" Yurio accuses. 

I turn to the woman, expecting a rational defense.

"I'm not abusing anybody! The girl was whining. Keep your blond head out of my parenting!" the woman shouts indignantly. 

Otabek and I exchange a glance, as equally worried bystanders.

"Ma'am— er— you can't do that," I am painfully aware of my accented English, turning in search of the little girl as an act of something like self-defense.

She is cowering behind her mother, shaking and wiping blood from various places. 

"Yurio, you're more familiar with the law here than I am— what do we do?" I direct the question at Yurio without taking my eyes off the girl. 

"Call the police and tell her how stupid she is until they get here!" Yurio kicks a pile of collecting snow at the woman.

It mostly cakes the small girl, however, worsening her shivers. Otabek dials the police as more fighting breaks out. The little girl begins to crawl away, but I quickly snatch her up and take a few steps away from it all. Panicking at the fact that I have just stolen an abused, bloodied infant, I stop in my tracks.

"Hey, hey, shh," I pat her back comfortingly, although I bounce on my heels nervously. "Its okay. I'm not going to hurt you, okay?"

"Mama is bad," the little girl cries simply, pushing into my chest. "She's bad!" 

This takes me by surprise. I look down at her, hoping the blood won't show on my snow-proof coat. I wonder what the heck are three competitive male ice-skaters supposed to do for this poor little girl.

The distant shouting becomes a lot louder when the woman finally lands a good punch to Yurio's face. Otabek's own face hardens, lowering his cellphone slightly, while Yurio poises for an outraged attack. I turn swiftly to direct the little girl's attention away, sitting down in the snow with her, despite the cold.

"What's your name?" I prompt her, praying for policemen to show up soon.

"Elkena," she coughs as stray snow hits her face. I quickly lean over her to protect her from the harshening weather.

"Elkena?" I ask, rubbing the blood and the snow out of her eyes. I've never heard a name like Elkena before, I struggle on the 'L' sound, I'd rather say 'Erika.'

"Yes," the girl nods, curling closer to my chest when she suddenly hears her mother call out to us.

"Hey!" the woman shouts, trying to stumble toward us. Otabek swiftly holds her back. "What the hell are you doing!?"

I turn back to face them, holding Elkena in my lap so that her back faces the other three.

"My name is Yuri," I speak softly to Elkena. "We're gonna help you, okay?" 

"Okay," she nods tearfully.

"How old are you, Elkena?" I ask, thinking fast to hold her attention.

"Five," she counts it on her fingers almost exclusively for her own view.

"Really? You speak English very well," I congratulate her warmly.

"Babysitter talks English," Elkena looks up. "She not come back, though."

"Where'd she go?" I question with a frown.

"Mama's in trouble," Elkena looks up, cowering and watching the fight. 

She can't seem to stay on the same topic for long, which frustrates me because I need to know more about what she's telling me.

Finally, a police vehicle rolls up.


	2. Questions

The policewoman has a lot of questions, asked exclusively in Russian. I could maybe read her questions and try to decipher them, but my conversational Russian is not appropriate for speaking to anyone except Victor. Of course, I blanch when she rounds on me, holding Elkena. Otabek and Yurio are forced to explain.

Finally, she tries again in heavily accented English.

"Please come to station for questions."

Before I respond, my gaze floats down to Elkena, held securely on my hip.

"She will become in good hands," the policewoman assures me, holding out her own arms.

Elkena cries when I attempt to bequeath her into the woman's arms.

"No!" she screams. "Yuri!" Her tears create hot streaks down her frosted, snow-covered face.

"You may sit with her in the passenger seat," the policeman waves her hand for me to follow.

She then turns back to Elkena's mother and begins barking for her to get in the backseat of the police vehicle. Otabek and Yurio tell me they'll follow on Otabek's motorcycle to the police office.

*****

i've never been arrested la la la i also don't know anything about Russian law enforcement la la la feel free to inform me if you have knowledge

*****

Walking home through the dark night and the frigid snow is already hard enough, but when adding the guilt and anxiety of leaving behind a defenseless five year old-- to the mercy of Russia's child care system-- to the preexisting discomfort, the walk becomes next to impossible. Walking, in fact, becomes a trudge, and the trudge soon gives way to a less than motivated drifting. 

I don't see the worried text messages from Victor. He wants me to come home and get some sleep for tomorrow morning's competition. He also wants me to get out of the cold and come to bed. Even more than that, he wants to apologize for sending me out by myself. I don't even notice the messages, however, to know to respond to him. He's in tears and on the verge of calling the police (oh boy) by the time I finally make it through the front door.

"Victor?" I call heavily, weakly trying to leave my angst and my jacket at the door.

"Yuuri!" I hear the footsteps first, Victor's accompanied by Makkachin's, scrambling as they both greet me at once. "Yuuri, I-I've been so worried about you!" he cries.

Hot tears spill over the collar of my shirt onto the skin of my neck as he says it, embracing me tightly in his arms. Makkachin has his own words with me, barking before nudging my leg with his head. Spent, tired, and wanting nothing more than to crumble in Victor's arms, I give into tears as well. I'm a clammy and freezing cold mess without even a gift for Georgi's surprise birthday party-- as I was sent out to retrieve in the first place-- to show for my trouble. Victor notices, but doesn't question me now. He bundles me into his arms and carries me upstairs.

Everything happens as if in a dream. He sets me in front of the fireplace, helping me out of my cold, wet clothes into warm, dry material. And then sits with me, Makkachin also coming to bask in the warmth with us.

"Yuura," he takes me into his lap as he says it, sharing his body heat, "tell me. What happened while you were out."

All I can do is sigh heavily. I don't know where to start. I take another deep breath and let the words go as quickly or slowly as they come to me, surprising even myself with some of what I say.

"I ran into Otabek and Yurio, on my way in and their way out of the shopping complex," I begin shakily. "Yuri was screaming his head off at someone-- like he always is-- but it seemed serious," I recall, "so I stopped to see what was the commotion all about."

I falter there, stopping to rub my eyes. Victor kisses my neck once as an encouragement to continue. Grateful for his warmth and his love, I absentmindedly bring my hand up to rub in his hair fondly before continuing. I glance over to see his eyes, hooded by his bangs, and I wish I hadn't. Victor looks so worried he might start crying again. The sight unwillingly brings tears to my own eyes, and I fight to keep them from spilling onto my cheeks, but I lose the fight as soon as my mouth opens again.

"Yurio was trying to protect a little girl," I choke. I can feel Victor's surprise like electricity, but he doesn't say anything, allowing me to continue. "Her mom was hitting her with an empty glass bottle when Yurio caught her," I pause to take a desperate breath through incoming sobs. "She was covered in so much blood she couldn't keep her face clean of it. And I didn't want to leave her alone, Victor. I didn't want to leave her there."

I can feel Victor's warm hold of me tighten protectively as he listens. If I look into his eyes again, I know I'll only lose the ability to speak due to wracking waves of guilt and grief, so I look into the fireplace before speaking again. It takes me a few heartbeats to work up the strength to form intelligible words.

"She's five years old." I break down here. "I picked her up and talked to her while Otabek called the police. The moment I saw her and held her in my arms, I just wanted to help her. I wanted to take her home and let her stay with us..." I whisper meekly. "Even we could love her better than her mother. And even she loved me-- a stranger-- more than her mother, the instant we made eye-contact."

"What happened to her?" Victor pushes softly.

"Sh-she's going through social work and legal proceedings for the next several months, and then she'll be placed in the care of her grandmother."

"Mm..." he mumbles. "Have you ever heard the story of Yurio's past?" Victor sighs heavily.

I wipe my face and look up at him. A glint of curiosity and concern begins to rise in my chest.

"Are you implying that Yurio was abused like Elkena? Placed in the care of his grandfather later?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heylo lovely readers! just letting you know that this chapter is third person, active present from elkena's perspective-- except it's not elkena telling it cuz she's five, and it's not technically yuuri either because he's not seeing it happen... so just... uh.... don't get caught up in that 

Battered, confused, and helpless at the tender age of five years old, Elkena is not immediately given over to her grandmother. Nothing is immediate, really. She goes in and out of the hospital between stays in various foster homes. Elkena is never really sure where she is or why she goes there. She just clings to the only real memory she can retain at such a young age.

"Mary, would you mind watching Elkena?" the latest foster mother, in the middle of preparing dinner, asks of an older teen. "She likes to blow bubbles."

"Alright," Mary agrees, picking herself out of the rocking chair slowly and carefully because of her rounding stomach. 

Mary is fifteen, too young to be pregnant, but pregnant nonetheless. She wants her baby, the only family she's bound to have, but is fairly certain she is in no position to give the child the proper care she will deserve-- for the doctors can say with certainty that the baby is a she. Mary takes Elkena's small hand with a pang of something like wistful longing as she leads Elkena into the fenced backyard.

Elkena looks up at Mary.

"Are you sad?" she asks as bluntly and as brazenly as any five-year-old.

"I suppose I am," Mary admits, glancing down at the little girl. "I don't suppose I can help it much."

"Why?" Elkena pushes.

Mary bites her lips, wondering if she ought not to be having this conversation with a child so young.

"I'm going to have a baby soon," Mary says slowly, sitting down at the porch and opening a bottle of bubble soap for Elkena. "But I may not keep the baby."

Elkena looks appalled. "Why not?" she exclaims in shrill tones. "Won't the baby need you?"

"Where is your momma?" Mary diverts.

Elkena thinks long and hard. She doesn't appear to know. She blows a bubble on the wand as she thinks. Then it comes to her.

"Mámá hit me," she refers to her mother with a different word than Mary used. It is colder, less endearing. "She not a good momma," she frowns.

"Well," Mary begins carefully. "That's why I may not keep the baby when it comes. I would never want to hit my daughter, but I may not be the best mother for the baby."

"You can get better mothers?" Elkena exclaims, astounded. 

"Of course. You, yourself, are on the road to a better mother," Mary blinks, tilting her head.

"I'm waiting for my gramma," Elkena shakes her head. 

"Anyone willing to love and take care of you is a better mother than a mother that beat you, even a grandmother. Just because she didn't give birth to you doesn't mean she won't be a better mother." Mary blows a few bubbles for Elkena to pop.

Elkena still doesn't seem to understand though.

"What about fathers?"

"What about them?" Mary asks, almost amused.

"Can you get a better father if yours was no good?"

"Sometimes," Mary shrugs. "They are...  not always available."

Elkena seems to have expected this response. She nods and looks up from her bubble chasing.

"What happens to bad mothers and fathers?"

"They lose their children," Mary shrugs, "hopefully."

"You think you'll lose your baby?" Elkena looks crushed.

Tears spring to Mary's eyes. She shrugs again, and looks away.

"I want the best future for my baby," she says determinedly. "Whether it's with me or without me depends on my baby's needs."

There is a long silence from Elkena. She blows bubbles, giggling as they pop occasionally. She has a doll slung under her arm that she doesn't seem to care about much. But she allows the doll to hold her bottle of bubble soap for a moment as she returns to the conversation with Mary.

"I know someone you can trust with your baby, if you don't keep it."

"Her," Mary corrects Elkena's referral to the baby as an it with careful amusement.

"No, I mean a he," Elkena shakes her head and giggles. "He saved me from Mámá."

Mary looks skeptical but intrigued. "Oh?" She dares encourage the little girl, expecting a tall tale or a vague description of a fire fighter.

"His name is Yuri-- he's sorta famous!" Elkena says. "He ice skates-- he calls and asks about me sometimes, and he makes sure I'm okay."

Mary frowns.

"Not Yuri Plisetsky, the young Olympian?"

Elkena screws up her face. "No, that's not it," she shakes her head, violently throwing low curly pigtails in and out of her face. "But they know each other."

"Katsuki Yuri, then," Mary says, incredulous. "Victor Nikiforov's Japanese project."

"Yes!" Elkena leaps excitedly. "My gramma said I can take his skating classes when I go home with her! Yuri stayed with me at the police station. He wanted to take me home, but it was too fast," Elkena looks sad at the memory. "He seemed like a good father. But he said he didn't have children yet, even though he wouldn't mind it. He'd probably be a great papa for your baby!"

And although it's an enormous stretch, Mary believes Elkena.


	4. Incredulous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back to yuuri’s pov

The early morning ringing of my cellphone takes me by surprise. Normally I'm the one to call Saint Anne's Foster Agency, asking about Elkena once or twice a month. But Elkena has been with her grandmother for almost a full month now, and although I recognize the number as the one I've called a million times before, they've never called my cellphone. When I pick up, the Russian is too quick for me to catch. I scramble to get Victor, downstairs.

"Victor-- help!" I hiss, tossing him the phone.

He blinks inquisitively and I indicate for him to answer the phone. Slowly, he obeys. He goes silent for several heart beats, listening to the woman on the line. After a moment, he sets down his mug of coffee and stares silently off in the distance. He murmurs something of a short affirmation to a question and then begins to listen again. I wish I knew what was going on.

"What is it?" I whisper.

Victor holds up one finger, indicating for me to hold that thought. He starts groping around the kitchen, searching for something with which to write down the information being given to him. He mumbles another sort of agreement and then he finally finds a notepad and pen on the counter. I watch incredulously as he begins to write down a name and address in Russian script. 

"Yuura, my love," he says, catching me off guard. He smiles at the awkward way I flinch. "When can you start taking childcare classes?" he asks.

"Uh-uhm," I stutter. "Where would they be?"

He emulates the question.

"Online," he shrugs to me after a moment.

"This weekend," I shrug in return, rubbing the back of my head. "I guess..."

"Right. How soon can you go back to Russia with me?" Victor asks.

I blink incredulously.

"It's almost the off season, we could go anytime between..."

Victor immediately jumps back into the conversation on the phone. He starts writing on the notepad again. I watch, dazed. It's still early-- am I just dreaming? What's going on?

"Victor, are we--" I start quietly. "What's happening?"

Victor slowly removes the phone from his ear for a moment.

"They're offering us the chance to adopt a baby," Victor says, matter-of-fact. 

He returns to the conversation, muttering a quick apology and asking the woman to repeat what she just said. I can feel gravity increase, I need to sit down. Here, we'd just decided to settle in Japan and now we've got to get back to Russia. Should I call my parents? I should wait for Victor to get off the phone.

"Yuuri-kun," he says suddenly, surprising me again.

"Hai?"

"You look distraught," his accent thick as he switches between languages. "Do you want a baby?" his eyebrows furrow in concern.

For several seconds I can do nothing but stare. My mouth dries up and my throat closes. Unable to speak I force my head to lift up and fall down. Victor cracks a-- relieved?-- smile. I watch incredulously as he returns to the phone. This conversation seems as if it's lasting an eternity.

But when Victor finally hangs up, he goes over his notes with me.

"Elkena vouched for you," Victor murmurs affectionately. "To a friend she made. A girl-- Mary-- that's pregnant. And when they could verify that you were genuinely there for Elkena and checked up on her often, Saint Anne's decided Mary had genuine reason to trust you. She hasn't given birth yet, she's not due until June 29. The baby is a girl-- she may have severe health issues."

"Like what?"

"The list of possibilities was too numerous to capture in its entirety. I'm sure we'll receive a real list-- officially."

"Right..." I say distantly. "This is really happening?"

Victor smiles. "Surreal isn't it? Need to be pinched?"

I extend an arm, expecting to wake up any moment. But I can vividly feel Victor's touch. I blink through the realization. Tears come to my eyes as it hits me.

"Yuuri!" Victor exclaims. "Did I hurt you?"

"No--no. I'm just overwhelmed and... excited," I hug myself into his chest. "I wasn't expecting this-- today was just like any other normal day until..."

"I know," Victor wraps his arms around me and plants a gentle kiss on the top of my head. "I'm excited too."


	5. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~Time Skip For Now~
> 
> Some Fluff
> 
> I'll go back and probably add more chapters between this and the last one

Setting her down in the crib, I always feel a twinge of loss. As if I'm leaving my own heart in another room. So I linger, routinely, partially to watch for any signs of struggle breathing or seizures or an SVT attack. But she is a peaceful sleeper.

"Goodnight, Valkyrie-chan," I whisper, double-checking and then triple-checking the baby monitor before gently closing the door to the nursery.

Victor is still making our own bed, Makkachin nipping at his heels while he lays out the sheets. 

"How is our валькирия (Valkiriya/Valkyrie)?" Victor smiles through the exhaustion etched like wrinkles into his young visage. His accent is thicker when he's tired, but his question is light and his eyes are bright with their usual happiness.

"Sound asleep," I reply, "you wanna take a peek before we nod off?"

Victor comes round and presses an affectionate kiss to my lips before shrugging a sort of "be right back" statement in sleepy Russian. I resume his work making the bed. Makkachin looks up at me hopefully, once I've finished. Those puppy dog eyes are so hard to resist.

"Okay, fine," I acquiesce, squeezing under the freshly made bedsheets and patting the empty space beside me. 

The smell of clean sheets is dampened by the doggy smell of Makkachin as he jumps up. Victor returns moments later with a sleepy yawn and a skeptical look toward Makkachin and me.

"I've been replaced by my own dog!" he whines in feigned indignation.

"Come here, Vitya," I grumble, opening my arms.

He perks up as he nestles on top of me. He smells like laundry detergent and dust-- a sure testament to the cleaning we've done today. I would give him a break from the housework for a day if it didn't mean he'd just have to watch the baby. We could probably use a babysitter....

Victor stretches briefly before curling up on my chest. I admire his lithesome fit against my body for several heartbeats. But he interrupts my thoughts with a ridiculous quip.

"If you were to call me Daddy now, would it still be kinky?" he yawns.

"Excuse me?" I laugh, his body rising up and down with my laughter.

Victor flops beside Makkachin-- after a short protest from the poodle. He snuggles into his pillow and offers me that famous look that only Victor Nikiforov can achieve. Then he playfully repeats his question.

"No," I affectionately cuff him over the ear, "of course not."

"But she's bound to call us Papa and Poppa," Victor cuddles up against me again. "Daddy is an entirely different word--"

"Do not corrupt our baby," I snicker, pushing him off. "If she heard that--"

"Come on, Daddy," Victor pleads, a sultry note entering his voice.

A twinge of desire shivers up and down my spine. I extend one hand to caress the available side of his face while I consider my next move. Victor melts into my tender touch then bubbles up for an eager kiss. Makkachin joins the fight to break down my reserve, weaving excitedly between our legs.

"Quiet, you," I warn the dog. "Don't wake little Valkyrie."

Makkachin seems to understand, sitting back and lolling his tongue quietly. Victor leans back to pat him on the head and congratulate him for being a good boy. Seemingly satisfied, Makkachin leaps down from the bed to take up his position on the floor where he can dutifully monitor the door. 

"Okay, Daddy," I lift an eyebrow, addressing Victor. He lights up at my use of the pronoun. "I'm ready to go to sleep, are you?"

He shakes his head vigorously.

"Oh?" I fail at every attempt to stifle the smirk splitting my face.

"Mm," Victor hums, climbing overtop me again. "Don't tell me you're too tired for a little loving?" he murmurs low, accent dark and thick. 

He knows exactly how to turn me on. Dammit. 

"Okay, Vitya," I acquiesce. "I'm all yours tonight. Just don't forget we can't wake the baby," I toss my head toward the baby monitor as a warning.

"Mm, of course," Victor promises, closing the gap between us with agile ease.


	6. Phichit

It's almost Halloween, and Victor has suggested we host a costume party at our new residence, back in Japan. Juggling a baby and teaching skating lessons and still keeping up with Elkena, I am unsure I want us to be responsible for hosting a party, but Victor insists we can easily manage. It can even be kid-friendly if we firmly insist Chris dresses responsibly, in which case we could invite Yuuko and her husband along with Axel, Lutz, and Loop. I'll admit, Victor makes the idea sound like fun.

Parties take planning though, especially if we want our international friends to appear. Luckily for me, I don't have to do the planning alone. Phichit, bored and with extra time on his hands these days, offers to fly up early and help. I don't think he's all that invested in the idea of the party-- he probably just wants to meet Valkyrie in person. I don't care about his motive, as long as he's helping.

So Victor and I, with sleeping Valkyrie, scan the airport now for Phichit's arriving flight. We're meeting him because he'll be staying in Hatsetsu and he needs a ride over. But as soon as we find him, the first thing he has to do is wake the baby.

"Victor! Yuri!" he exclaims bubbling up to us. 

He catches me, luckily not the one holding Valkyrie, in an enormous bounding hug that only two ice skaters can achieve gracefully. 

"Well, I'm glad to see you too, Phichit," I chuckle, setting him down.

Victor tries to shield Valkyrie from the excitement but it's no use, she begins to squirm and cry in his arms. Phichit doesn't seem to mind the small cries, however. 

"Oh my gosh, Victor, hi! Is this Valkyrie!?" He stoops to see her eye-to-eye. "Hi, little one," he lowers his voice affectionately. "My name is Phichit," he smiles.

Valkyrie quiets some, apparently captivated by the new face in front of her. Phichit jumps into a game of peek-a-boo and now she's smitten. She begins to squirm toward Phichit, seeking to be held.

"Oh my gosh! Your baby is so cute! Can I take a selfie with her?"

"Surprised you haven't already," Victor concedes with a fatherly smile, bequeathing our daughter into Phichit's ginger grasp.

"There," he grins upon posting several pictures featuring our wriggly baby, "now I'm starving! Let's get rid of my luggage and talk over lunch?"

"Of course," I nod, taking babbly Valkyrie and rocking her soothingly. "I hope you still like pork cutlet bowls."

"Are you kidding!?" he gasps. "Of course!"


	7. Relax

"So, okay, we've got the invites out," Phichit says, stirring his drink until the refresher meets the coconut milk at the bottom. "Now we wait for RSVP's and hotel situations."

"My parents are willing to take people--"

"Yuuri! What are you doing to your coffee?" Phichit interrupts, looking at me with wide eyes.

I pause in the middle of sifting an entire cup of sugar into it.

"Fuck, I wasn't paying attention," I set the sugar container back on the counter and close the lid of my cup. "This is bound to give me a kick."

He laughs in good nature before shaking his head and leading us to sit at an outside table. The weather is nice today. I find myself getting lost in the clouds as Phichit attempts to carry a conversation with me.

"Anyway, yeah, your parents are awesome people. But do we advertise that, or let our friends figure it out?"

"They tend to figure it out," I shrug, rubbing a hand behind my neck and trying not to remember all the different incidents. "And I figure the more recluse will know to steer clear."

"You mean Yurio and Otabek?" Phichit snickers.

"Bingo," I try to take a cool sip from the drink but it is so shockingly sweet I ruin the effect with a disgusted face at the end. "Ugh, this is bad."

"You could dilute it with another cup?" Phichit suggests.

"More like two or three," I sigh, although smirking with amusement. "I'm tired enough to need more anyway."

"When was the last time you got a full night's sleep?" Phichit asks, whipping out his phone at the sound of a notification.

I shrug and think. How old is Valkyrie? Then I correct myself. How long have I been sleeping with Victor?

"Several months," I shrug, admitting only to Valkyrie's age. He doesn't need to know dirty details, although he'd probably listen gladly.

Phichit looks up and tuts at me.

"Okay, we're doing something relaxing. Party planning is done for today."

"My family owns a hot spring, Phichit, I don't think there's anything more r—"

"Grab your stuff."

"—okay."

 

"Feeling relaxed yet?" Phichit tosses over his shoulder as he skates by.

I hardly hear him. I manage a nod toward him but my mind is still skating through some of the pressure on my brain. I've been worrying about a lot of things lately, I guess. I worry for Victor's satisfaction with our lifestyle, for example, and I worry for the stigma Valkyrie will eventually face, I worry a lot about Elkena and Mary, and whether Yurio likes it or not, I worry about him sometimes too. The ice surfaces and boils away some of these pelagic thoughts.

I haven't much thought about that there's a lot of pressure on me to be the coolheaded problem solver. Though, I suppose coolheaded is what I am right now. Icing my anxieties— if I can call it that— and leaving behind just a little bit more of my tension with every footfall is certainly one way of unwinding. Phichit comes up behind me, as if gathering the pieces I've thrown away that I might need. But he doesn't come to shatter my zen.

"What does the ice do for you that people can't?" Phichit asks genuinely.

"You, of all people, should know," I reach out and punch him gently. "I mean, this was your idea. And you've been my best friend for how long?"

"Hey, I'm just saying. I've been trying to get you to loosen up for— stop snickering, good grief, what has Victor done to you!?— ugh, loosen up for years, and I can never recreate the happiness on your face like right now if we're outside the rink."

I shrug.

"Artists paint away their problems, writers jot away their problems, I skate... I guess."

"I thought artists painted for fun," Phichit muses. "Or for communica—"

"Smart aleck," I laugh. "You asked what the ice does for me, and I answered."

"Fair, fair," he lifts his hands in defeat. "So then, had enough yet?"

"You're done already? I'm just getting warmed up."

It's not an entirely true quip. I can feel the rivulets of sweat rolling down my cheeks like gentle reminders to go easy. But I could easily skate for another hour or so before calling it quits.

"Ugh, not everyone has the stamina you do, you know," Phichit complains. "Or is it determination, rather?"

"Try having an anxiety disorder and then come back to me with that," I chuckle darkly. "We can be done though, but only because I'm having Victor-and-Valkyrie withdrawals."

And that is true. I wipe at the sweat and follow Phichit off the ice.

"How cute," he coos on the way out. "Missing hubby and baby."

"Don't you patronize me," I groan.

"What? If I didn't, who would?" Phichit offers a cheeky grin.

I have half a mind to punch him again. And now that we're off the ice, it wouldn't have to be gentle. But I restrain myself and simply toss him an exasperated glance.

"Aren't we planning a party involving literally everyone else who would?"

"Meh-h." 

I shake my head at him, but leave the building feeling better about life and ready to move forward.


	8. Mark Beginning: Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The details regarding Elkena’s official adoption will be revealed slowly over time, but for now they’ve grown up a bit and it’s the next generation of skaters on the ice and in the studio.

Valkyrie's P.O.V.

How do I even explain to Uncle Yuri that I love dancing but I'd like to quit doing it in a studio? Maybe I'll just be blunt like, "I want to skate. Please teach me." But there's no way he'll take that so easily.

But I didn't even bring my pointe shoes— so I can't back down and just take today's lesson. I have no choice but to push this door open and wing it. I should have rehearsed what I was going to say, though, there's no way this is going to work. My only hope is to approach him not as my instructor, but my uncle.

"Kiriya, you're early," he greets me approvingly, looking up from his position at the barre. He smiles when he sees me, but his smile fades when he sees I'm still wearing street clothes. "Need to change?" he asks, almost hopefully, because I think he can sense that I'm about to fire him.

"Uncle Yuri," I begin, walking up and trying to return his smile. My tone, though, is heavier than I wanted, "I think I'm done dancing in a studio."

"What do you mean?" he asks simply, leaving the barre.

I swallow hard before it comes out in a rush of word vomit. "I'd like to quit dancing in a studio."

He frowns. "What? You just want to quit, out of the blue? Quitting isn't like you, Valkyrie— where is this coming from— is there something going on I need to know about?"

I swallow hard and try not to let my knees shake.

"I don't want to quit dancing," I protest. "I just think I could do better on th—"

"Hold on," he interrupts. "Valkyrie, have you talked to your fathers about this?" he demands. 

I shamefully hang my head, turning my gaze to the floor.

"Valkiriya," he pauses to grab the bridge of his nose and pushes upward, trying to calm himself. "I don't want you to just throw ballet away, like it's over and it's nothing. You have such incredible talent and dedication— you're one of my best students!" he exclaims, throwing his hand down, accompanied with the stomp of one foot. "Well, you did have dedication, at least," he sighs and gives me a look of bitter confusion. "What happened to that?"

I can see he's fighting to contain himself. With any other student, he would be cursing, or screaming in their face, or even just dismissing them without another word if he approved of the matter. But my uncle simply looks torn between confusion and frustration and maybe even sadness as he fights for me to stay.

"That's a high compliment, Uncle Yuri," I admit shakily, never having tried to quit ballet before and improvising as I go. "And you're right, I've worked really hard to get where I am with my balletic skillset. But I'm sixteen, now," my breath begins to stagger as I sense I might lose this fight. "And I go to the rink every day and just watch people skate because it looks so wonderful, but I would give my right arm to skate with them!" 

I can feel my throat constricting, but I have to keep explaining myself. "I would do anything, Uncle Yuri," I beg. "Please you could teach me how. I won't do anything dangerous. I just want to try."

I blink pitifully beneath the scrutinizing glare of his icy blue gaze. He smooths one hand over his tightly wound blond bun. He seems to be simultaneously collecting his answer and studying me. He purses his lips and finally sighs before responding again.

"You really are their kid sometimes," he sighs and shakes his head without meeting my eyes. "It's creepy, you know, how you do that. But, Valkyrie, you know the story. They did want to teach you, your fathers. But when you fractured your wrist at three years old—"

"Uncle Yuri, I'm sixteen!"

"I know but you're not at any less risk if you fall again," he replies, his voice strained. "If you could convince your fathers, I might consider it, Valkyrie, but there's just no way—"

"I'll get someone to teach me—" I blurt. "Anyone, even just random people on a frozen lake, I don't care. If you want me to learn properly then you teach me. But I will learn whether or not you or Papa and Poppa support it."

He eyes me with a look of mingling anger and approval. He scowls and mutters to the floor, "I hate it when you do that."

"Do what?" I reserve the hope building in the back of my chest, sniffing and continuing to rub at my dumb escaped tears.

"Talk like some weird combination of Victor and Katsu- Yuuri," he steps forward and dries my tears with the slight of his hand. "You may not be their child by blood but you sure are their kid," he says fondly. "But you can't tell either of them, if I do this for you, got it?"

He just agreed to teach me. He did just agree to teach me, didn't he? Excitement starts to percolate up from the soles of my feet into the palms of my hands. 

"You'll teach me how to skate?" I dare to look up and meet the cold ice of Uncle Yuri's eyes.

He nods once, curt and surly. But before I can leap for joy he holds up a single thin finger.

"You better promise you won't tell Papa and Poppa," he says. "And they'll have my head if you get hurt. Heck, I'll have Otabek hand them my head on a silver platter if you get hurt under my supervision. And you know I wouldn't do this for any other person on the planet. You're lucky I love you, kid," he admits begrudgingly, arms crossed in front of his chest.

I rush forward into a bear hug, squeezing beneath his interlocked arms.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, Uncle Yuri! I promise it'll be our secret. But don't worry, I won't get hurt— I'll be really careful. When can I start?" I bite my lip to keep from squealing like a kid.

"You want to start right now," he observes with an amused smirk.

I nod vigorously. I can feel him about to give in, but the door to the studio suddenly opens.

"Hey, this is a private—" Uncle Yuri starts, but stops short. "Well if it isn't James Jérôme Leroy," he rolls his eyes and walks forward, a smile creeping up his lips despite himself. "What do you want, JJ— this is a private lesson that you're cutting into."

"Sorry, I thought it wasn't supposed to start for another fifteen minutes," he glances at his watch and shrugs. "But I just wanted to know if you have any extra practice slots on the ice."

I've never seen this James Jérôme before, only heard of him. My sister says he's a jerk and a ladykiller. I try not to give face to my disgust but I can't help but cross my arms and snarl when he tosses a smooth once-over at me in the mirror. Uncle Yuri doesn't let the look go without commenting, coming to my rescue.

"Not my niece, Casa Nova," he warns. "But I might be able to work something out about the ice..." 

I do not like the look Uncle Yuri is giving me right now.


	9. Blooming

Still Valkyrie's P.O.V.

"So, Nicki Minaj, what's with the hair?" the Leroy kid asks. I don't look up. The laces on my skates won't tie properly. It's not anything like my pointe shoes and I can't get them tight enough. "Pink is a bright color, how do you get away with it in ballet—?"

"I can't tie this," I sigh, interrupting.

"Oh, here," he shrugs and takes a knee.

I blink, unsure whether to feel grateful or violated as he tightens my skates for me. Before I can make up my mind, Uncle Yuri steps up to us.

"Valkyrie needs to learn for herself," he says, eyes narrowed to slits of ice.

James Jérôme wordlessly backs away, following Uncle Yuri out into the rink. I look down at the laces he tied. He did it right, at least. I'll have to google it after class or something to teach myself, I suppose.

Entering the rink after them is like being slapped by cold air. It's terrifying and refreshing at the same time. My palms tingle and I want to nervously bounce my weight between my feet, but I clench my fists and continue forward.

"Skate to the center," Uncle Yuri beckons me from his position in the middle of the rink. 

I recognize this tone. Uncle Yuri isn't going to go easy on me. He's not even really my Uncle in this mind set— or at all technically, but that's beside the point. He's Mr. Plisetsky right now. And he'll most likely expect me to call him by the latter. All I can do is nod and produce a small yessir, even though I don't know the first thing about skating. How will I even come to a stop in the middle?

"Today, Valkyrie," he snaps. "James," he adds, a snarl almost visible on his lips, "you too."

James— where did the Jérôme go? Was it a joke before?— tosses me a look of blank sympathy as if to say something in between sorry and sucker.

I tentatively place one skate on the ice. I'm in fourth position, both feet turned out, one directly in front of the other. I can do this, I think, just gliding in alternating fourth position. Just glide, I tell myself, heart racing dangerously. I'm not allowed to feel this alive. But I'm pretty sure I love it. With a burst of short lived energy, I launch forward on my front foot and fall directly onto my back.

All the air in my chest leaves my body, and I'm left gasping for breath while I struggle to stand again. My head throbs where it hit the ice but I'm alright. I don't bother dusting the ice from my clothes as I clamber forward, but my leggings feel wet and cold now.

For a moment, Uncle Yuri glimmers in Mr. Plisetsky's glare. But I can't reach out to it now. I don't want him to baby me. If I ask him to treat me like a kid with SVT, I won't get the chance to do this again.

"Good, get up," Mr. Plisetsky nods. "Try again, feet turned out— like you had them."

I don't fall this time. But I'm sure my trek is far from graceful. My balance is normally good, but I can hardly even stay upright. This is nothing like ballet, I'm realizing. Or at least, it doesn't feel like ballet yet.

James is the one who stops me. Or, rather, I use him as a stop. A lesser skater might have hit the ice at the clumsy angle I hit him, but he simply steps back and steadies me.

"Sorry," I apologize breathlessly, blooming into a warm blush. 

"Take her around the rink," Mr. Plisetsky dismisses James. "You'll find it easier if you hold onto him," he adds to me, one eyebrow arched upward.

James concedes a curt nod while I offer a smaller one. Awkwardly, James offers his hand. I grasp it only to watch him step around to face me and present the other hand as well. He's going to skate backwards? What a show-off, I think, blushing harder. James smirks.

"Now I think I know why your hair is pink," he says, pulling me toward the rink wall. 

"Why?" I roll my eyes, looking down.

"It's an extension of your pink complexion," he laughs cruelly. Or maybe I only perceive it as cruelty. It's hard to tell while I'm also trying to keep my feet neatly beneath myself. "Can I call you Poptart?"

"Why?" I manage, watching in awe as James pushes off of the ice and pulls me forward.

"Because you remind me of a Strawberry Poptart," he shrugs, guiding me away from the rink wall. "I've got you, Poptart," he smirks.

I'm not sure I like his nickname. It's not very endearing. And I feel a little ridiculed about my hair by now. I grip his hands tighter and scowl downward.

"I'd prefer if you wouldn't call me that," I glower. "I almost preferred Nicki Minaj."

"Your name is Valkyrie?" he asks instead. 

I nod in response, throwing off my balance and almost falling into his chest. He pushes me up by my shoulders and steadies me again. God, he looks so smug. Just wait until tomorrow, I tell myself, when he has to navigate blindly through ballet.

"Yes," I try again verbally, spine straight.

"That's sorta pretty," he shrugs and looks away. "I'll just call you by that."

I can feel the blush starting in my chest while it crawls up my neck into my face. I wish it would stop because he didn't even pay me that high of a compliment. 

And I don't think I actually like James too much. Not to mention that Elkena has already said he's nothing but trouble, on more than one occasion, and I should trust my older sister when it comes to boys. And— why is he blushing too?— shit, I have to say something, I'm just staring like a blooming idiot.


	10. Reality

"What can I call you?" I ask, barely audible. 

"'James' is fine," he shrugs, casually guiding me into a twirl. "Don't call me JJ," he warns, sweeping me off balance but catching me before I can fall.

I stare up at him helplessly.

"I said not my niece, Casa Nova," Uncle Yuri skates up to us, hammering the split second of magic back into reality. "That's enough touching," he rolls his eyes and separates us at arm's length.

"I was only having a conversation," James replies cheekily, although strategically stepping beyond pointblank smacking range. 

Uncle Yuri shoots him a warning glance before rounding on me. 

"You got a feel for the ice?" he demands.

I shrug and nod.

"Finish the lap on your own," he instructs.

*****

By the end of the practice, my feet are blistered and my legs feel like cold, wet spaghetti. Somehow, I'm expected to walk home now. But it's July in Saint Petersburg, Russia. The weather is cool rather than subzero, for once, but the sky is already opening. And unprepared as I was today, I have a small backpack with my phone and my wallet, and that's about it. No umbrella, no change of clothes, no anything better than a hoodie I left by my street shoes.

"Uncle Yuri, can you give me a ride home?" I ask an empty office. 

Where did he go?

"Uncle Yuri?" I call around the sitting area at the front of the rink. "Mr. Plisetsky?"

There's not even so much as someone working the front desk to help me find him. Did the rapture strike while I wasn't looking? Where did everyone go? As if solely to prove me wrong, James pops up out of seemingly nowhere.

"You're looking for Mr. Plisetsky?" he asks, zipping up a jacket with sporty Canadian decorations over his own street clothes.

I try very hard not to find his outfit attractive, but all my effort does is yield a raging blush.

"I'll take that as a yes," James snickers. "You just missed him. He was in a rush to get back to the studio. He said he was late... among other more colorful things. But the ice is free if you're gonna stay, you just won't have his help."

"Oh, uh—" I'm at a loss for words.

I didn't hear much of what James said. I was too busy trying to hide my face. He looks at me now with an unreadable expression. Now I realize he's got the perfect opportunity to make fun of me.

"You're awkward," he scoffs, plunging my self-esteem below the zero mark. "I like you," he adds, confusing me.

If that was supposed to help me in any way, shape, or form, it did the opposite. As if just to fluster me further, James closes the distance between us and bends until he can breathe in my ear.

"Am I making you nervous?" he exhales in my ear, amused by the resultant goosebumps on my arms.

I long for my hoodie and my shoes. I should text Poppa and wait outside for someone to pick me up. But James has me in a kind of trap. I take a step back only to realize there's a wall there, hitting my head hard against smooth cement. James chuckles and takes a step back for himself.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he lifts his hands apologetically. "Are you okay, Valkyrie?"

"I..." my voice falters. "I'm okay. I need to text my Poppa and ask for a ride home—"

"Why don't you stay?" James tilts his head. "I can show you how to lace up your skates."

"I can google it," I argue weakly.

"Don't be stupid," he laughs, finding a seat at a bench near the door and motioning for me to sit beside him.

Tying a skate is harmless enough. What could possibly go wrong? I collect my things and reluctantly take up the other side of the bench.

"Come closer, doofus. Let me actually show you," James laughs.

Unwillingly, I scoot close enough for our breath to mingle. For a moment he looks like he might kiss me and the thought incurs all kind of panic and inner turmoil. My stomach suddenly pitches over and threatens to purge itself of my breakfast. The nausea must show on my face.

"Relax," James chastises me. "Put on a skate— this is really easy— just watch me."

But I can't watch him. My heart is threatening to keel over, and I wouldn't be surprised if it did in my current condition.

"James," I interrupt, airless and lightheaded. "I feel really weak, I need to lie down."

"Weak?" he frowns, getting up, although not fully understanding why. "Are you okay, Valkyrie? Are you gonna pass out?"

I don't want to admit my heart condition to him.

"I'll be fine," I cough, lying down.

"You're really pale..." James is worried now. "There's a vein twitching in your neck—"

Automatically my hand flies up to my neck to massage the vein. I don't want to resort to the Valsalva maneuver— I'll look deranged— but I think I might have no choice. I sit up too fast, the room spinning and threatening to topple over. 

"Valkyrie?" James questions. "Can you hear me?"

I realize I haven't spoken in a long time. I can tell James is trying to talk to me but it sounds like it's coming from the other side of a glass tank. I'm gonna faint if I don't act fast. I shut my eyes tight and take a big breath. I have to pinch my nose and lips completely closed and exhale with a fair amount of force.

After the third try I think my ears pop because I can suddenly hear again. And when I blink around, James is dumbfounded, kneeling in front of me. He probably won't ever flirt with me again after this.

"Valkyrie?" he dares ask.

"Yeah?" I sniff, shaking my head and blinking hard again.

"Are you okay, I was just about to get your phone and call your Poppa, like you said," he extends my miniature backpack toward me as he says it.

"Oh," I force an extra cough. "Thanks, JJ."

Some color returns to his face.

"Doofus," he grumbles through a small smile. 

"I liked Poptart better than that!" I protest, regaining a foothold in my confidence as I scroll through my contacts.

I shoot Poppa a text while James tries to press what happened out of me.

"Do you faint easily or something?" James demands.

"Sure," I shrug. "I mean that's not wrong..."

What am I doing? James is beyond my league and even if I did have a chance, my older sister would kill me for mumbling and blushing around him all the time. He's surely trouble. But why doesn't he feel like trouble?

"That didn't sound very convincing. Please tell me? Come on, Valkyrie, that was really scary for me— I thought you were having a seizure. What was it actually?" James brings me back to reality.

Before I can open my big mouth and say something else stupid, which seems to be the only sort of thing I can say around James, Poppa calls me back and I have to answer.


	11. Hair Dye

Shyness governing my motions, I step away from James until I believe myself to be out of earshot.

"Hello?" I answer, stepping aside as a girl shoves past me to entire the building.

"Hey, Kyrie," Poppa says over the phone. "I'm about to take Elkena to the airport— you said good-bye this morning, right?" he digresses from the point of my text to him.

"She was half-asleep," I laugh, "but yes, Poppa. What about my ride?"

"About that, Elka would rather not be late to the airport again," he pauses and a garbled angry agreement from Elkena fires from the background. "Can you wait there until Papa finishes giving his lessons?"

I glance at the time and groan. "That's like an hour from now," I whine. "It'll probably be done raining, by then, anyway."

"I know, バルキリーコ (Barukirīko/Valkyrie)," he begins to apologize. "It's not ideal, but—" an angry bark cuts him off, eliciting a stern Japanese warning. 

Elkena sure seems cranky— or maybe anxious— but Poppa doesn't let her maintain an attitude with him. I don't really blame her for stressing out, though, because she's got a big season coming up in the senior division. Not to mention, when it's Poppa's turn to travel with her, Elkena can't help but give more emotional performances— which also entails a bombardment of emotions off the ice. 

"I'm so sorry," Poppa sighs, "Kyrie, I have to go. Will you be okay?"

I shrug and grumble a kind of assurance. I can hear the amused relief in my father's voice as he says goodbye. But when I hang up, I realize I'm stuck here for at least an hour. An angry sigh leaves my lips as I return to the bench that James and I had previously occupied.

But anger percolates inexplicably in my chest when I see my seat is now occupied by someone new. I shouldn't be so offended, but I am. I mean, this girl is sitting right on top of my stuff.

"Who's the bottle of pink hair dye?" she looks up from their conversation and eyes me as I tentatively approach.

"Hey, Valkyrie!" James smiles, turning away from the other girl. "All okay?"

"Oh, uh, yeah," I stutter, trying to nonverbally cue James to make the other girl go away now. He's not getting it.

"Oh," I can tell he's already gotten the wrong impression. "Valkyrie, have you met Trista Taylor? She's a skater, not a ballerina, but she comes to this rink fairly often now, right? Since the first comp of the season will be around here."

She shrugs and nods, not wanting to look at me. She's clearly a Canadian skater, as well, wearing a similar sports jacket littered in Canadian colors and emblems. Her jacket has glitter around the shoulders, though, giving her an air of untouchable glamor. The sight of her and heavy smell of her expensive perfume makes me want to grind my teeth. She's the fake kind of pretty, eye-makeup heavy and hair tucked into a disgustingly and impossibly perfect bun on the top of her head. I see dancers like her often enough, but I don't get along with them either.

"Trista is like my best friend," James seems to be teasing her, trying to fill the silence when neither of us make any move to greet one another. 

She glares at James, but doesn't say anything. I want to know what she thinks is her problem with me. Or is it with James? She then turns a cold gaze of amber-brown hatred on me. What did I do, but walk back over here? 

Oh. It comes to my attention, when my head starts to hurt, that I don't just want to grind my teeth, I am grinding my teeth.

"Hi," I offer tersely. "I'm Valkyrie. You're sitting on my stuff," I nod under the seat, where my jacket and backpack lay scattered.

Her face changes to accommodate an ugly round-cheeked smile. 

"Oh, my bad," she rolls her eyes as she moves. "Was I in the way?"

I literally just told her she was in the way. Am I about to catfight this hoe just because I don't like her attitude? Or am I about to catfight this hoe because she's literally asking for it? 

Stay calm, Valkyrie. I don't need to make a scene.

James bends low and hands up my hoodie. It feels lame in comparison to their sporty styles. I have one of their caliber too, I guess, for dance competitions but I don't do those anymore. I'm working on getting into college, these days, thus I'm wearing apparel for my Poppa's university. I guess ballet isn't my life like skating is these two's. I swallow hard and thank James quietly.

"No problem," he seems to see something on my face, because he frowns as he says it. "Something wrong?" he whispers so Trista can't hear.

I shake my head and look away. Self-conscious of the bright pink hair falling into my face, I push it back and shrug toward James.

"I'm here for another hour," I tell him. "My Pa is teaching in the uptown rink, where all the little kids go," I explain. "I'm debating walking home through the rain, though."

"Don't do that," James shakes his head. "You should practice so'more with Trista and me."

I shake my head. That idea does not sound pleasant. James looks torn between wanting to flirt and wanting to skate. He puts on a better face and gives it one last stab.

"You sure? I mean, you are my new pair-skate partner," he says with the cutest puppy dog eyes. 

As if to strengthen his argument for me to stay, Trista pipes up indignantly.

"Jamie!" she exclaims, shooting me a vicious glare. "You didn't tell me you were pair-skating!" she accuses him.

"I didn't tell Valkyrie, either," James shrugs with a chuckle. "I was told by her uncle. Mr. Plisetsky is a— family friend or relative?"

"Family friend," I reply, unable to hide a smile.

Trista's face is one of jealousy and horror. But James quickly tries to put a bandaid on her ego.

"We aren't competing, this season, I don't think. Valkyrie's never been on the ice before. I'm sorta peer-teaching her so she can help me learn ballet."

Something in Trista's face becomes too hard to uphold and her entire look becomes angry.

"When were you going to tell me?" she demands. "That's something you ought to mention to your girlfriend, James!"

I suddenly understand her hostility toward me, now. Horror grips my chest like tendrils of an icy vine as I realize I was the one being a hoe. James just laughs and rolls his eyes, replying with some kind of witty response that is meant to appease both the girls in front of him. 

"I was only just informed of this happening, myself, this morning. Right, Valkyrie?"

I hardly hear him, though. I'm too busy formulating in my head my frantic plea to Elkena.


	12. Bickering

James presses me to stay for the hour, but I can't. I can't be caught at the rink, regardless. I tighten my hoodie and my sneakers and clutch my belongings to my chest, ready to make a break through the deluge. But Trista suddenly steps in my way.

"Hey, you can't just run like a crook. We're trying to talk to you," she says, crossing her arms.

I skid to a halt, tossing a guilty glance backward at James. He looks on, flustered but otherwise unfazed. He eyes Trista with something like a warning glance, but she doesn't notice.

"You think just because your daddies own the skating world that you're the princess of it? You don't even know how to skate," the arch of her eyebrow is as sharp as the hurtful jape.

This bitch.

"No. I never said anything like that," I argue. "I'm not staying here and playing monkey in the middle with you just because you're bored and need somebody to chew on your homophonic rhetoric. Let me through, or I'll call my uncle."

"He's busy, remember," James interrupts, approaching Trista from behind. I didn't mean Uncle Yuri, though, I meant Uncle Otabek— an entirely different threat. "Leave her alone, Tris. If it's a ride you need, Valkyrie, I can drive you," he offers.

Trista looks as if she's about to cry, catching we each, James and I, off guard. She turns all of her hostility toward him before I can respond, despair climbing up her face until it weighs in her brow.

"Jamie," she begins, "what the hell is going on? Why are you being so nice to her?"

I don't stay to listen to them bicker. I spin on my heels and race out the door, like a crook. I'm hit by the rain in one wet punch, but I don't look back. I squint through the raging downpour, momentarily blinded by the thundering rain. I pull the hood of my jacket up and blearily watch the sidewalk pass beneath my feet as I jog through the weather, head bowed and spine bent forward.

Don't I love summers in St. Petersburg. I don't blame Elkena one bit for hurrying to Japan. I'm sure she's bound to have a great time with Poppa getting ready for her next season on the ice. I bitterly wish to join her there. But I can't.

My shoes are getting to be soaked, socks thoroughly waterlogged and blisters throbbing painfully. My teeth chatter and my eyes hurt, and even my hoodie is beginning to soak through. By the time I make it home, I'm drenched to the bone and I'm sniffling like a crybaby. Whether from cold or self-pity, I am unsure by this point. I'm eager to let myself inside through the garage, but the door seems to be stuck. 

Panic wrestles with my problem-solving abilities. I try to force open the garage door but the door is jammed or locked or something, not how we normally leave it. I know the front door will be locked, but in desperation, I try anyway. I dig through my backpack, looking for a classic bobby-pin to pick the lock, but even there, no such luck. I collapse in a heap of wet slush on the front porch, feeling like an idiot.

By the time Papa calls, I've cried myself into a nap on the porch. I miss the first call, unaware of my cellphone vibrating in my backpack. It's when Papa rolls up to the driveway and perceives me to be hurt or maybe dead that I finally hear his call.

"валькирия (Valkiriya/Valkyrie)!" he exclaims, jumping out of his car.

I jolt, sitting up sorely. His face softens as he registers my dampened clothes and defeated gait. 

"You walked home? Kiriya, you were supposed to wait at the studio. How long have you been here— why didn't you go inside?" He helps me to my feet, but I lean all of my weight against him.

"Garage door wouldn't open," I cough, my voice sounding foreign and coarse.

"Valkyrie, you should have waited for me," he chastises gently, unlocking the front door and half-carrying me inside. "You're sick as a dog," he shakes his head.

He deposits me on the living room couch without pausing to shed his coat or his boots. He turns up the fireplace before continuing to lecture me.

"Your health is fragile, дорогая (dorogaya/darling). You need to be more careful, Kiriya, especially with an audition coming up."

"Я знаю, Папа (Ya znayu, Papa/I know, Papa)," I shiver, feeling colder before the heat of the fire. "I didn't know the garage door wasn't going to open— I thought I could get in without a key."

"I'd rather you have come in like a crook than suffer on the porch. I'll get you a key, Kiriya," Papa sighs, draping a blanket over my shoulders. "Or we can start leaving a key under the mat, okay?"

"Спасибо, Папа (Spasibo, Papa/Thanks, Papa)," I sniff weakly, feeling damp and miserable. "Can I take a nap before I do my homework today?"

He eyes the ring of water surrounding my position on the couch before acquiescing. We slowly slip into Russian, a habit when I want to be taken seriously.

"Да, дорогая (Da, dorogaya/Yes, darling)," Papa nods. "Change into something dry," he adds. "Don't catch cold."

"Okay," I yawn. 

*****

I bring my homework to the table for dinner. Papa sets a bowl of steaming soup and a mug of hot tea next to my textbook, notebook and pencil, held contemplatively in my hands.

"How are you doing, then, Valkyrie?" Papa asks gently, placing an icy hand to my forehead.

He tuts and pulls away. 

"You're burning up, Valkyrie, I was afraid you'd gotten sick."

"Я в порядке (Ya v poryadke/I'm fine)," I argue.

"нет, ты не (Net, ty ne/No, you're not)." Papa disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later, medicine in hand.

"Papa," I whine. "Я не хочу медицины (Ya ne khochu meditsiny/I don't want medicine."

"Медицина хороша для вас (Meditsina koroshya dlya vas/Medicine is good for you)," Papa replies sternly. "вы примете лекарство (Vy primete lekarstvo/You will take medicine)."

I want to continue arguing with him but I know he'll win. If nothing else, he's more fluent in Russian, and I'll look stupid doubling back into English. I think I'm taking a fever reducer, something to dry up my nose, and cough syrup. It's the cough syrup I fight against. I try again, setting the notebook and pencil down to make a better appeal.

"У меня нет кашля, Папа (U menya net kashlya, Papa/I don't have a cough, Papa)," I try to convince him, although my voice is hoarse. 

"Я не тупой. Выпей лекарство (Ya ne tupoy. Vypey lekarstvo/I'm not stupid. Take your medicine)," Papa retorts, but there's no anger behind his words. 

I have no choice but to down the cough syrup. Papa seems pleased with my compliance, reluctant as it was, moving to finally sit across from me at the table. He watches me pick up the pencil and try to continue thinking through dimensional analyses. He tells me to set it aside and save it for when I feel better. But I don't want to fall behind.

We continue half-heartedly bickering in Russian until I finally just tell Papa, "I already miss Pop and Elkena."

Papa softens again. He nods, pushing around his food and agreeing. 

"I know, Kiriya," he says wistfully. "But they only just left this morning, let them get settled in before we bother them. They'll call when they're ready."

"But I have girl things to talk about with Elkena," I mope into my soup.

Papa just laughs at me.


	13. Sleepless

Elkena's P.O.V.

"Please check your text messages, お父さん (Otōsan/Father). I'm trying to sleep."

Poppa mumbles a kind of agreement, fumbling for his phone. Jetlag is killing we both.

"It's your sister," Poppa yawns. "She wants you to check your texts. Should I tell her that you're tired?"

"ヴァルキリーちゃん(Varukiri-chan/Valkyrie) can wait for me to text her in a little while," I grumble, rolling over.

"はい (Hai/Okay)," Poppa says sleepily, typing out at slow response.

His keyboard sounds at every push of a letter. I hear every tone and I'm well aware when he receives her response. I want to throw my pillow at him but I settle for shoving the pillow over my head.

"She says 'Love you both, sleep well,'" Poppa's voice is muffled by the pillow over my ears. "同上 (Dojo/Ditto)," I can hear the exhausted smile in his voice, even through the dense layer of cotton.

"同上 (Dojo/Ditto)," I agree.

But even though I'm tired and grumpy and unwilling to respond to my sister, I can't sleep. I've got stress and regret and confusion on my mind. If I could sleep it off, I would. But I can't even manage to let myself sleep, for fear of the stress-induced nightmares.

I'm not sure how successful this attempt at sleep is going to be. Poppa seems to have managed some rest, though. Poppa's breath has evened and slowed. If I wait long enough, perhaps I may be able to sneak out and look at the scenery while he sleeps— the sky in Japan is preferable to Russia and the plant life is lush and green here. Occasionally, the serene scape of my second home will carry me into peace. But I'm not sure that even the blissful morning scenery will calm my nerves now. 

I just have a terrible storm of feelings in my gut. Everything leads back to the night Poppa met me— found me?— and tried to save me. I remember my birth mother, although not clearly nor fondly. She yelled and hissed and was always very rough. As a twenty-one year old adult, I can look back and understand she wasn't mad at my existence as much as her mistakes surrounding my existence. But I don't think I forgive her.

Sometimes, though, I still look at Poppa and wonder what might have happened if he hadn't found me. I wonder who I would be. I wonder who my sister would be. They're not easy wonderings. Because I have this terrible notion that I would be dead, and that Death came to my birthmother, and then my grandmother, searching for me. The taste of lead fills my tongue when I consider the notion that I should be dead, that I can still die yet.

I have to get up, I have to do something. But I've hardly shaken my foot from the under the covers when a cold hand grips my ankle and tugs. I fall to the floor in a numb heap, helplessly whirling to face my attacker. As if I'd thought him into reality, the hooded and skeletal facade of a ghoulish shinigami looks down on me.

"七日間 (Nanukakan/Seven days)."

And then I wake up in a cold sweat, my pillow staunching a frightened cry— still smothering my face in bed. I wildly sit up and look around. I scramble for my phone as quietly as I can in such a frenzy. My body trembles and my hands shake out of control, unable to dim the harsh light at first. But I manage to get what I want— the calendar app— to open. My benefit skate to kick off the season is in five days, rather than seven.

Seven days from now is a blasé Tuesday, probably to be filled with last minute practice sessions. Am I going insane? Did I receive a vision from the Grim Reaper, or is my mind so frazzled and paranoid that it's sending me cryptic messages from such an illusion? Tears come to my eyes as I realize just how pathetic and confused I am. 

But while I have out my phone, I should text Valkyrie-chan, if for no other reason than to stop panicking. She's six hours behind this time zone but it's very late at night for her. Scrolling through her texts, I'd think she's the one that fears imminent catastrophe in seven days. Her messages are filled with "SOS" and emergency symbols. I finally uncover a message that looks as if it could be the root of her crisis.

"¡ eLKA i fLIRTED wITH JJJ bY aCCIDENT!"

And then another, of equal panic.

"¡aND hE hAS a gIRLFRIEND!"

I scoff and begin to type an exasperated reply, asking her to recount what happened exactly. I'm not surprised when she speedily hammers out a wall of text almost immediately, despite the ungodly hour it is in Russia. Her sleep schedule is backwards, at the moment. She binge watched an anime about two gay male gymnasts or something stupid all night, and then somehow survived an audition the next morning without a wink of sleep.

She apparently fared very well, but then let it become a habit. Now she's an insomniac. I want her to go to sleep after she gets this story off her chest. I can tell she's been dying to tell me, so I assume this is the only way she'll sleep at all. The tangential thought of death heralds a pang of cold fear in the back of my mind, but Valkyrie soon redirects my attention again.

She recounts quite an interesting day. I audibly sigh before typing up my reply, advising her to steer clear of the rink from now on. To which, in reply, I receive a winky-frown emoticon. I don't know what's that supposed to mean, and she doesn't offer an explanation. I bid her goodnight and she reluctantly allows me the chance to catch up on some sleep for myself.

But my day is sure to sleepless because I just can't find the peace to rest.


End file.
